Mental States
by Mongie
Summary: The problem isn't that Max can't put his life back together, it's that he isn't even trying to fix it at all.


_We are a sad pair_, Max thought gloomily as he watched Lucy leave for another shift at the diner. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen her smile – it definitely hadn't happened since Paco had…well…blown up. Max couldn't bring himself to feel bad – he'd seen too many men blown up in the field by faceless enemies to sympathize with anyone stupid enough to blow his own self up – but Lucy had taken it hard. He supposed he couldn't exactly blame her. With Jude gone and Max barely clinging to sanity at times, she had no one left to turn to, unless she wanted to go home. Except she was too stubborn to do that.

Max knew he should do something to make things easier for her, to stop being such a burden, but he mostly couldn't bring himself to do anything. The sheer enormity of the violence and horror that had consumed his life had rendered everything else pointless. So he did the only thing left for him to do – he sat on the couch, smoked some stuff he'd begged off of Jojo, and tried not to either jump out of his skin every time a shadow moved or get too lost in his memories to find his way out. Lucy got upset when he did that…

Lucy was upset with him now, and Max was having trouble getting out of the drugged trance he'd put himself in to react.

"God, I can't believe you'd do this Max!" she was saying, pacing back and forth a few steps away. She'd learned that, not to wake him up by touch or get too close before he was fully awake. Max felt a vague sense of shame snake its way into his hazy consciousness – he'd made his own sister afraid to come near him. Groggily, he raised a hand and rubbed at his eyes.

"Are you trying to kill yourself? Is Jojo trying to kill you?" she spun to face him, eyes red and puffy.

Max shook his head slowly, not understanding completely what she was saying. He wasn't trying to kill himself, he was trying to keep sane so that he didn't. "Lucy, I was just—" he croaked.

"No! I don't want to hear it! I can't come home every night to find you trying to overdose on the couch. I can't, Max!"

"I wasn't trying to overdose—" he protested, but she still wasn't listening to him.

"I have to go," she said, rushing away from him.

Max stared after her, and then down at his hands, which were shaking. He flinched as the door slammed and had to take a minute to steady his nerves. He wondered where Lucy had gone. She'd already done her shift at the diner, and she hadn't worked seriously with any anti-war organizations since bringing Max home from the hospital.

He wondered if she was going to come back. Then he realized that all her things were still here, so she'd have to come back. _But for how long__**?**_ he asked himself, somewhat bitterly. How long would she stick around to take care of him now that he was broken and no good? His parents wouldn't be surprised, he knew. Screw-up Max, waiting for someone else to take care of him.

He thought of Lucy's red, tired eyes and scratchy voice. His sister was tearing herself apart, and mostly because of him.

Max slowly levered himself to his feet, finally stung into feeling something besides either fear or apathy. A semi-freezing shower and a strong cup of coffee later he was up and awake. He sat at the table, considering his options, and half an hour later put down the phone with the promise that he could have his cab back. Shaking, he lit a cigarette, waiting for it to steady his nerves. This business of actually doing things was nerve-wracking after the relative helplessness of the hospital.

There was still one thing he had to do though. Getting a job would help, but Lucy needed more, and he still wasn't fixed enough to offer the support she needed. Hell, he still needed to figure out how to support himself. Leaning back in his chair, he thought about going to find Jojo, seeing if he wanted to have a joint or two, something to calm him down…

_Shit_, he thought, hands clamping down on the edge of the table, as if that would physically keep him in the room. He was doing it again, going right back to where he'd been. And he rather thought that Lucy was about to just leave him there, tell him to fuck off, and go off to find her own life. So he swallowed hard, and determinedly grabbed a half-stale slice of bread. He was going to make himself a sandwich. He was going to make himself a sandwich, and _not_ think about going to Jojo's. He would do that, and he would be here and coherent when Lucy got back, and, hopefully, he keep it all together for long enough to begin to make things better. Hopefully…


End file.
